


Gallopo Infernale

by contraltosaurus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Castrato Marco, Greek mythology parallels, M/M, Opera House AU, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, and a chance for me to be an opera nerd, basically an excuse to write jeanmarco fluff and angst and smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contraltosaurus/pseuds/contraltosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rome, 1730. </p><p>When Giovanni Ciliegia Nocciolo, a young conductor fresh out of conservatory, receives a summons from the prestigious Teatro Titano, he discovers that Signore Devoto has hired him to conduct their next production, a brand-new adaptation of the myth of Orpheus. He is excited to embark on a new stage in his career; what he doesn't know, however, is that this theatre may unearth some long-forgotten memories...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gallopo Infernale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, Gio. The orchestra is about to begin rehearsal for our current show, but go and see about the dressing rooms. You may find a familiar face.” Livio’s eyes were downcast as he picked up a quill to write something, and he said nothing else, but Gio spied a smirk on his lips.

To put it simply, he was terrified.

He’d been terrified from the moment he’d received the letter, addressed to one Giovanni Ciliegia Nocciolo, and had seen the flourishes of the Teatro Titano seal, and the immaculate signature of its esteemed director Livio di Devoto.

Young Gio had done hardly anything in his life; he was a gentle twenty-one years old, and had hardly just finished his studies in Naples. Livio had apparently been present at a performance of the St. John Passion, Gio’s first with a major orchestra. The papers had lauded him. He’d been called a prodigy, a gift to music, a magician with the baton, with a keen ear for the subtlest of expressions.

And, evidently, Livio thought so as well. So Gio had packed up his things into a modest single trunk, thanked his mentors at the conservatory, and rode down to Rome.

The Teatro’s exterior was magnificent by itself, ornate yet unassuming, with patterns of silver and blue running the length of its walls. Gio could already hear the orchestra tuning as the carriage stopped outside, and, tipping his tricorn to the driver, made his way inside the foyer. A large letter board greeted him; he could see that _L'incoronazione di Poppea_ was in rehearsals.

Giovanni stood in awe, reading the cast list again and again. The eponymous mistress was being sung by the famed young soprano Cristiana Strappare, youngest daughter of one of the most influential dukes in Italy. She went by the stage name Primavera, so as to humbly mask her noble lineage. Ottavia was being sung by Annabella Cuordileone, a seasoned and full-voiced woman whom Gio had had the pleasure of seeing twice in his life. Nero was a man named Marco Botta, whom Gio had never heard, but whom he had heard was one of the best up-and-coming castrati the stage had ever known.

Shaking himself from his starstruck haze, Gio nervously stepped into the grand hall itself. Looking around at the gorgeous architecture and the impossibly huge green curtains, he was almost too distracted to notice Signore Di Devoto sitting in the front row, half-turned towards him, one hand raised to silence the orchestra. Gio looked down and caught his eye; he gasped, and awkwardly half-ran down the aisle, exclaiming as he did so. Livio’s gaze was stern at first, thin brows drawn downwards into a scowl, but his face softened as Gio reached him, bowing.

“Signore,” Gio said, slightly out of breath, and peered up at Livio, who was smirking.

“Maestro,” came the reply, in a voice lower than what Gio was expecting, and he had a strange feeling, as if he’d heard it before. Perhaps in a dream, or… No, it was nonsense. He’d never met Livio before. The man straightened his porcelain-white cravat and turned towards the orchestra. “Carry on.” Then he turned to Gio. “Come with me.”

They walked to Livio’s private office, a neat and modest arrangement, with little ornamentation other than a little glass sculpture of a dove on his desk. He sat at his station and Gio took a seat in the armchair provided for him.

“Do you know why I’ve summoned you?” he asked, fingers laced below his chin.

Gio swallowed loudly. “I recall you...you said you were impressed with my abilities, signore.”

Livio smiled. “I was. You’ve a mature handle on the artform.” Gio dipped his head in gratitude. “It’s what we’re going to need.”

“Signore?”

“Our next project,” Livio sighed, with a wistful expression seemingly born one-quarter out of fondness and three-quarters out of exasperation. “You’re familiar with Cacciatore and Campo, si?”

Gio thought for a second, then nodded. The names had been everywhere lately, as was their story. Two hot-headed young siblings, a duo of composer and lyricist, notorious for their rather _adventurous_ works.

The brains and the words, Michela del Campo, had been dropped off at an orphanage as a baby, and had grown to be a prodigious violinist in her childhood years, adopted by Don Grigori Cacciatore upon impressing him. He was a man of all trades: trained in medicine, a veteran of war, and, most notoriously, a dabbler in the arts. As Michela, an orphan and with nothing to her name, had no concerns about getting married off to some nobleman, she could devote her life to those fields nearly always reserved for men. And she was damn good at it.

Her adoptive brother Santino had begun collaborating with her as soon as he learned to notate staves. His sound matched the depth of her poetry, but his art was all raw passion, fire and brimstone, music straight from the soul--some more conservative critics thought his brand rather tasteless. Apparently, Livio had faith in them to create his next spectacle.

“I’ve commissioned them to write a new adaption of the Orpheus myth,” Livio said, one fingertip tracing the wing of the glass dove. “I thought perhaps, seeing as the pages will be filled with the imagination of youngsters, some young blood at the baton would be appropriate as well.” Gio grinned, nearly trembling with anticipation.

The young man’s eyes widened, and he bowed his head in respect and humility. “I would be honored to work at your side, Signore.” Livio laid a hand on Giovanni’s shoulder and gave him the closest thing to a smile the man seemed to be capable of.

There was a moment of silence, and then: “I’m so glad I finally found you.” Livio’s voice was soft, as were his eyes. There was an inexplicable degree of melancholy in his expression, as if he knew he was resigning Gio to a hellish position. That couldn’t possibly be the reason. Perhaps he was just having a bad day. The man’s eyes hardened after a few seconds, and he turned Gio around, giving him a subtle shove towards the door before sitting at his desk.

“Molto grazie, Signore,” Gio reiterated with a smile, and began to leave, when he heard Livio’s deep voice once more.

“Oh, Gio. The orchestra is about to begin rehearsal for our current show, but go and see about the dressing rooms. You may find a familiar face.” Livio’s eyes were downcast as he picked up a quill to write something, and he said nothing else, but Gio spied a smirk on his lips.

Gio’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he quietly shut the door, and then followed the signs down the hallway and behind the stage, into white-walled corridors with ornately engraved plaques above each door. He was a stranger to this city; who could he possibly know here? A classmate from conservatory, perhaps? He looked around, seeing nothing, hearing soft voices but nothing that suggested someone was exiting their room, and then, at the end of the hallway, a door opened.

A small woman crept out, adjusting her corset and skirts, which looked in disarray past the point of decency. Her hair was messily gathered into a bun, which she loosened and let fall, blonde curls pouring over her slight shoulders. She said something to whoever else was inside, and then turned around, facing Gio and gasping when she saw him.

It was Annabella Cuordileone.

She rushed past Gio into her own room, which he had passed, giving him an icy glare.

“I’m so sorry, Signora, I--”

 _“Signorina,”_ she corrected harshly, before slamming her door. Gio exhaled loudly, and looked over to the wide-open door, where an extraordinarily tall man was pulling his tights up around his waist and primping in the mirror.

“She’s quite fiery, that one,” the man said to Gio, still turned around. “And very much still unattached.” He laughed, shrugging on a loose white shirt. “She’s good in the sheets, if you find yourself interested.”

Gio grimaced. The man’s voice was delicate, in a female register. This must be the castrato. A part of him hoped that this one would be different than the others, not a pompous, self-serving and entirely lascivious lad who flitted from one woman’s skirt to the next like a hummingbird suckling nectar. Evidently, that was not the case.

“You’re Signore Botta,” he said, clearing his throat and approaching the room. The man met his eyes in the mirror and smiled at him. The man was gorgeous, there was no doubting that. But there was something so familiar about his face that Gio could swear he’d seen him perform before.

“The one and only. Who’re you?”

“I’m your new conductor,” Gio said, his voice threatening to crack. He threw back his shoulders, assuming his newfound professional attitude. The castrato’s eyes went wide as saucers at that, and he grinned.

“Maestro! It’s wonderful to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much.” Botta turned around to face Gio, and as his long arms extended in a friendly gesture, Gio froze in place.

His mouth felt dry, his head dizzy. A heavy pressure in the back of his brain kept him staring straight forward, and as he stared, he saw Marco’s eyes widen even more, assuring him that what seemed like trillions of nebulae and stardust travelling past him, in his peripheral vision, would not classify him as completely mad.

Marco was...Marco.

Livio.

Michela, Santino.

_Marco._

Gio wasn’t "Gio" at all.

“Jean,” Marco said softly, the light timbre of his voice adding a gentle innocence to his name that Jean hadn’t heard since before his voice changed, when he first met the boy. For a moment, the pieces fell into place, and then he shook his head in disbelief.

_...What?!_

This was ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. There was no possible way...

The edges of Jean’s vision began to fade into vivid color, too bright, too unbelievable.

“Marco,” Jean murmured weakly, groaning as his knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the ground. He felt trapped in empty space, pain flaring up somewhere within his skull, and the only thing he could see before he blacked out was Marco gathering him into his arms, eyes red with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language notes:  
> Signore: Sir  
> Maestro: formal term for a conductor or music director  
> Si: yes  
> Don: Lord  
> Molto grazie: thank you very much  
> Signora: Madam  
> Signorina: Miss
> 
> The title refers to the Infernal Galop, the finale of Jacques Offenbach's own adaptation of the Orpheus myth, which was a parody on Greek legend and a rather brutal satire of his operatic predecessors. (You know the piece. It's the Can-Can song.) Basically, we're going to be leaping and dancing into the flames of hell here, folks. 
> 
> A lot of this fic is going to be opera/music jargon or references to Greek mythology, and not all of them will be explained, so do your best to keep up. But, in case anyone doesn't know: a castrato is a male singer whose testicles were removed before puberty so that their voice doesn't change.
> 
> For information on how I changed the names, please refer to this post: http://iosaturnalia.tumblr.com/post/121177552240/spoiler-ish-content-for-my-reincarnationau
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
